


Wildflowers

by Sarielle



Series: Statue Shrine Series [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Family, Fluff, Gen, Gravity Falls Oregon, Headcanon, Original Character(s), Post-Finale, Post-Series, Present Tense, Spoilers, TFW you used to be an all powerful chaos god and now your only friend is a 6 yo, Weird Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 11:01:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6049177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarielle/pseuds/Sarielle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a statue in the woods of Gravity Falls that locals say is cursed, and there is a young girl who likes to bring it wildflowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wildflowers

**Author's Note:**

> Another short little thing that started off as a headcanon and got carried away. This fic is based on the idea that the statue Bill's body turned into contains a little fragment of Bill's consciousness. Not with any power or ability to possess that all got destroyed by Stan, but just like an imprint of what a powerful creature it used to be. It doesn't come up in the fic but little girl's name is Estela, and she's six here.

He doesn’t remember everyone who comes to visit him. Maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe it’s because when you’re a fractured splinter of an age-old trans-dimensional consciousness time doesn’t matter and besides, these hairless apes look all the same.

A little girl brings him wildflowers every Sunday. She’s been doing it since she could barely walk. Her parents don’t seem to mind their tiny child is wandering the Oregon wilderness. Likely she lives close by. She has a brother, a taller dark-haired kid, who sometimes comes with her. But he always lurks back a bit, distant and wary of the legends like many other people of this town. He never has anything to say about his sister’s strange ritual. Just waits until she’s done and holds her hand on the way home.

She lays the flowers at the stone of his feet and cleans off the surrounding dirt and moss. Sometimes the local teens have been around with their cans of spray-paint and their aluminum sacks of wine. The girl does her best to clean him with a stolen dish sponge and pail of soapy water. It never gets all the paint off though. For some reason, that bothers the child. He can’t fathom why; It’s not like he even minds. Stone has no sensation. He barely exists. After all, his own consciousness is nothing but an afterglow, a cosmic echo.

She’s always talking. Sometimes he wishes he had a mouth with which to tell her to pack it in, but he doesn’t. He’s a sentient photograph trapped in stone. So she chatters, unimpeded, about everything. More recently she’s been teaching him the days of the week in Spanish. He’s not sure why she thinks this is a good idea. But she’s tenacious. She pats at his stone face and calls him ‘Señor Triángulo’.

She tells him everything that she finds important. I.e: Her favourite colour is yellow but not the fluorescent highlighter kind. The colour of sunflowers. She brings him some to show him one morning. So even he can appreciate the right kind of yellow that isn’t too bright it hurts your eyes.

He is trapped in this stone prison, never talking, never moving. Set to watch the slow trickle of time through the metaphorical hourglass as the universe marches on to its inevitable oblivion. Set to listen to this weak and spongy human and her constant barrage of irrelevant facts about her life.  

Her brother’s name is Stanley but everyone calls him Junior. Her dad once caught a picture of bigfoot on a camping trip and ever since then she’s decided bigfoot is her favourite and she wants to meet them when she’s a grown-up

Her family has a dog called Nessie, sometimes in the summer her father puts Nessie in a sea monster costume and takes her down to the lake to take pictures. The dog loves to swim so she doesn’t mind. She spends another fifteen minutes explaining what dogs are, in case he somehow doesn’t know. He wonders if he should be offended after all he has destroyed worlds before, leveled entire civilizations. He’s certain he knows what a dog is. Well, pretty sure anyway…  

One winter she appears bundled up in a rainbow patterned hat and scarf and a fluffy coat two sizes too big for her. She brings him a ridiculous looking scarf and mittens, in bright orange wool. She holds them up to his eye. An offering. 

“My Mom helped me make these!” She cries. “She’s pretty good at crafts and stuff, sometimes we sell her bags and hats as souvenirs.”

She struggles with the scarf because he has no neck to speak of and has to rope in her brother to boost her high enough so she can tie the scarf around him just below his top hat. She fastens it so it doesn’t fall in his eye and stands back to admire her work, with a nod of satisfaction.

“Dad and Junie made me promise not to shake your hand, so I don’t want you getting any ideas, okay mister? I’m just putting these mittens on so you don’t catch a cold.” She pulls the woolen tubes over his hands and ties them tightly.

“I’ll be back after the holidays, once the snow clears. I’m sure I’ll have lots to tell you! I’ll show you all my Christmas presents! Plus, spring is always really pretty. It’s the best for daffodils. You’ll like daffodils, they’re a nice shade of yellow too. Before she turns to go she presses a kiss to her gloved hand and pats his stone cheek once more.

“See you in the springtime, Señor Triángulo. Merry Christmas.”

He goes the next few months without any wildflowers. The snow builds up around him and everything is silent. Nobody tells him about their day, or explains what a dog is.

A little rhyme echoes around what’s left of his conscience: _Lunes, martes, miércoles, jueves, viernes, sábado y domingo_. It sticks with him on a loop all season much to his budding disgust. 

Some days he can’t remember why he’s trapped here in this prison of stone. More increasingly, he can’t remember just why the townsfolk are all so afraid of him. He is just a strange and directionless creature carved from stone. He is sure if released from his prison he could achieve Great and Terrible things, but be completely honest he’s not sure why he wants to. There was a reason once, but it is intangible and just out of his reach.

It is with fear and self-loathing in his statue heart he thinks that maybe, just maybe, a part of his warped and fractured psyche hopes that spring will come tomorrow, and bring a little girl with daffodils along.


End file.
